Endure
by smash interrupted
Summary: Makarov didn't kill Joseph Allen, but what happened after sometimes left the American wishing he had. In the depths of a Loyalist Safe House, beneath the arid desert of Afghanistan, Allen tries to heal under the watchful eye of the 141's disavowed Captains.
1. Part One

**Endure**  
Part [1/5]

* * *

 _There's ringing silence; Makarov pausing to wipe a young man's arterial spray from the side of his face._

 _Bodies lie strewn across the floor; blood soaking through lilac carpets, congealing on swathes of linoleum. Minutes earlier and there'd been yelling, and crying, and begging for mercy - cowering figures cut down by hails of lead and men without moral codes. Joseph Allen had been one of them; bile rising in his throat, even though he'd dulled himself to the world with drugs and alcohol and wicked, poisonous lies of patriotism and loyalty._

 _They'd sent him into the wolf's den. Ordered him to do **anything** he was asked to conceal himself, to stop a war, and yet... he knows, now, without a shadow of a doubt, that he's just helped orchestrate one._

" _Joseph Allen," the Mad Dog says quietly, pulling out a handkerchief to clean the red from his fingertips. White cloth starts to stain as the Russian steps closer, odd eyes flicking up to meet the defeated gaze of the American. "It is a pity that it had to end this way."_

 _The sound of boots squelching in puddles of piss, and shit, and blood, is the only warning he gets as the Inner Circle soldiers start to turn on him. Cold expressions, predatory smiles. Allen doesn't dare fight back as his arms are dragged behind his back in a vice-like grip; his weapon, empty and useless, having already dropped to the floor. A shuddering breath gives away his fear; so strong that it oozes out from behind the sluggish beat of his heart. He starts to tremble; knees wobbling, chest feeling tight. At twenty-one years old, he's been granted the power to see his future._

 _And there's nothing there._

" _You were so easy to manipulate, hm?" Makarov tucks the handkerchief back into the pocket of his suit, unhurried, casual, before slowly un-holstering his M9. The gun glints menacingly under flickering lights; the Russian giving Allen plenty of time to see it, as he clicks off the safety. "Shepherd knew how far you would go. He is a clever man. Perhaps I will thank him. You were such a fun toy to fuck with, no?"_

 _Sweat and an understated cologne assault his nose; Makarov so close now that he can feel the heat radiating off the other man. Allen is a shaking mess; teeth sinking into his lip as a last, defiant act. He'd given them so much already, and he'd be damned if he gave them anything more._

" _Look at me, Allen," the Russian's calloused palm cups his chin, forcibly tilting his head up. Allen flinches at the touch, but can't stop it from happening; blood turning ice cold in his veins as he's met with Makarov's smirk. The sudden jab of metal in his gut forces an involuntary whimper from his lips; terror blowing his pupils. His end is not going to quick. " **Breathe**."_

 _A second; suspended in time._

 _The gun shifts higher._

 _ **BOOM!**_

* * *

Allen wakes up screaming.

It's hoarse; broken - the brutal noise mercilessly ripping itself out of an already ravaged throat. Pain lances through his neck; eyes stinging at the sharp sensation, but the American doesn't stop; doesn't think to, because it's been such a long time since stopping pain has been a choice. Such a long time that he often forgets it's not a part of him; that it should never be a part of him.

A glass shatters; knocked off the bedside table by violent thrashing, its shards scattering across aging floorboards. He's tangled in his sheets; trapped, the linen damp with sweat. If he stops to think for half a second, he'll figure it out; he'll get himself free, but with each ragged breath, Allen can feel the bullet tearing into him.

Ripping through skin, and ligaments. Breaking bones. Copper and salt flood into his mouth; choking him, because as much as he swallows, he can't swallow it all. He's on his back, on the floor, with a shadow looming over him; head wedged at an angle, looking up at the ceiling. He can't turn it and he can't breathe.

 **He can't breathe.**

"Shite!"

The light turns on; scrubbing away the darkness that's blinding him. Footsteps reach his ears; loud and hurried enough that they thump right through the din he's making. Hands reach out to him; grasping at the covers.

"Soap!" A voice barks sharply. "Don't you bloody well dare!"

Allen doesn't register the arms as friendly; barely with it as he lunges, driven by self-preservation. The attack never lands; a second figure appearing just in time to pull the first back. There's a grunt; stumbling bodies. Swearing in voices that brush against his memories; trying to pull him back.

"He's going to hurt himself, Old Man," somebody says, echoing concern.

"I'd rather he get a knock on his head than you pop your bloody stitches," comes the flat response; tone brooking no argument. "Stay there."

"Price-"

" _Leave it_."

"Like I'm a fucking dog, aye?"

Still writhing on the bed; mattress creaking under his weight, Allen rips and wrenches, using brute force to free the right side of his torso. Panic holds onto him; chest heaving as he gasps for air; whites of his eyes showing a he tries to adjust to the sudden brightness. With a rasping groan, he manages to get enough purchase with his right arm to push his body upright, adrenaline rather than his muscle supporting the weight.

"Joseph, lad," the words lack the edge they'd had several seconds before; the shorter, stockier man making his way back across the room. Price. "You need to breathe-"

The Captain, with his palms upturned and expression uncharacteristically gentle, vanishes - replaced by a slighter, dark-haired Russian. Immaculate suit ruined; flecks of flesh and blood carving out a new design.

Allen feels his fist connect with warmth; inhuman snarl drowning out the surprised grunt. It takes a lot from him; trying to hit the bastard where it hurts, and he overbalances. For a good few seconds he teeters on the edge of the bed; broken glass awaiting him like razor rocks at the bottom of a cliff. The threat is lost on him; everything is lost on him.

And then Price slams into him like a professional quarterback.

It's rough - the force tossing Allen back against his pillows like a rag-doll; the weight of the SAS Captain securing him there like a pinned insect. Even fresh and fighting fit out of basic, Allen wouldn't have stood a chance against twenty-five years of experience, and right now, with his BMI still falling short of healthy, it's a pipe dream.

But that doesn't make him stop struggling. Makarov had only been the beginning; the months after he'd been left to die on the airport floor, markedly worse than the bullet wound the Russian had inflicted on him. It'd been the FSB that had fished him out of there; a small group of hard men, saving his life for the sole purpose of making him suffer far more in what Allen had eventually learned was a Government black site. When the guards had restrained him there... the memories only have to flicker for a heartbeat, before Allen's face starts to crumple.

The first choked sob makes Price wince; analytical blue gaze softening.

"Soap," Price turns his head, chin grazing his shoulder; his hands preoccupied. "Get the Ativan."

"Christ, you'd think we were the stuff of nightmares..." Soap pushes himself away from the wall Price had bailed him up against, cupping his healing wound through a two-sizes-too-big sweatshirt. Worry darkening his features; the sounds of distress from a veritable kid leaving cracks in his composure, the former 141 Captain collects a syringe from Allen's dresser; ripping its packaging before drawing a dose out of the vial. "Hold him still."

"He's as bloody still as he's going to get."

It's not hard to see the strain - several veins starting to stand out rather prominently on Price's temple. More adept at playing the jack-booted thug with thick sods that deserved it; his own sordid past in a place similar to the hell hole the Loyalists had found Allen, the poor bugger warbling at him pressing a nerve. Soap bumps his OC as he moves to stand next to him. "You're doing fine, Old Man."

Price grunts again. "Just stick him, eh?"

Allen is huffing like he's run a ten mile race; every third breath hitched and shuddering. He's flushed; terrified, and as Soap reaches down to do as Price ordered, he seizes - one last ditch effort to get away, his legs kicking out. Price growls through clenched teeth.

"Now, Soap!"

Pressing a hand down on Allen's chest; feeling the rigid lines and tension, Soap leans over him quickly, searching for a quick and painless spot to administer the drug. The younger man bucks beneath him; jolting both men; the motion sending a spark of white hot pain lancing through Soap's side. "Easy, mate, easy. We're going to help you, aye," he's crooning, a little breathlessly, trying not to grit his teeth. "Sshh."

Not daring to faff about any longer, he slides the needle into Allen's bicep; thumb pressing down the plunger. Ativan was more effective when injected directly into a vein, but it still worked either way.

"You'll be alright, lad," it takes a few minutes for the lorazepam to work; the first sign that it'd hit Allen's bloodstream coming when he unintentionally relaxes in Price's grip. "There we go," Price mutters after he's sure it's not feigned reaction; finally letting up; letting Allen go. "Up you come."

Both Soap and Price move to help the American sit. Allen sways as he does; eyes glassy, head lolling to the side. The rest of him follows as he leans too far; the American caught unwittingly against Price's shoulder as his forehead bumps into it; Price catching him out of reflex.

"Mac always said I'd turn into a sodding wet nurse," Price says; sounding gruff, but not pushing Allen away; his hand coming to rest on the younger man's hair.

Soap cocks an eyebrow, but doesn't slip into light-hearted teasing; unwilling to intrude on the moment. "There's worse things to be, Old Man."

"Hm."

* * *

A month ago, Kamarov had led Price and Soap through a winding, cement building hidden beneath the arid desert and blustering heat of Afghanistan. Left behind from the Soviet-Afghan war in the 80s, the underground stronghold promised a safe hiding place; a place where Soap, still barely able to stand after the hatchet job Shepherd had done to him weeks before, could heal under the Loyalists' watchful eye while Price slipped in and out; hunting prey that was well beyond the hovels and mud hut villages dotted around the landscape.

Five weeks after they'd made a small, quiet corner their own among the fifty odd Russian soldiers - some formally trained, and others not - Kamarov had returned to them with a surprise. One that had left the Loyalist leader's eye black; his lip split; and an unfaltering somber look on his face.

Joseph Allen.

Soap hadn't been able to find the words as a couple of Kamarov's men had pulled the twenty-two year old through the doors; utterly wild, despite his arms looking like twigs in the grip of two burly Loyalists. Price had taken one glance at the poor chewed up bastard and promptly asked if Kamarov was trying to do them. Because there was nothing but a cornered animal in that bundle of rags, ready to lash out at the first thing that moved. Kamarov had made a remark about leaving the next Western soldier he found in the same black site he'd found them in, before staunchly striding out of the room with promises to send a medic - when they could spare one.

For three days after, Price and Soap took it in turns, watching Allen. Both of them wary; both of them unwilling to let their guard down, despite the young man gravitating to a corner and staying there. One day into it, Soap had cautiously gone to sit with the American; rumbling nonsense as he'd gotten close, his need to help the lad letting him compartmentalize the guilt; the pain. The nausea every time he look at the matted hair and grimy face, well aware that it was a toxic combination of his own naivety and Shepherd's cruelty that had thrown Joseph Allen to the wolves in the first place.

If he could turn back time, he would.

For all of them.

It was on the fourth day, when Soap had carefully settled in next to the kid; placing a ceramic bowl of cereal down between them as an offering, that their slightly rabid third wheel had shuffled a little closer. Grey eyes full of recognition for his old Captain, Allen had picked up the spoon with disjointed fingers, making a decision that Soap would not have begrudged of him, if it had been any different.

He was going to trust.

Just a little bit, for a little while.

And if that little bit worked out, maybe he'd try for a little longer.

Until the meter slowly filled back up again.

Soap had been willing to live with that; still was willing, as Price finally followed him out of Allen's room thirty minutes after Soap himself had left; a stumbling, half-asleep Ranger on his heels.

Setting a bowl of porridge down on an old, plastic table Price had brought back from one of his many trips; Soap gently claps Allen on the shoulder as he comes in to collect his breakfast, winking as he catches the young man eyeing him from beneath half-lowered lids, always cautious.

"Morning, mate."

There's a long moment; Allen twitching slightly as Price steps away to switch on the kettle; leaving him exposed. The meter they'd been working on together had apparently backslid, though Soap is reassured it isn't too far as Allen reaches up to rub the back of his neck; hoarse voice still a few octaves lower than normal.

"... Morning."

In the background water starts to boil; Price turning to lean on the counter, his arms crossed, expression schooled into passivity as his eyes flicked to the table. "Put honey on that, lad. If you get any bloody thinner, you'll blow away in the wind."

Allen blinks slowly, not quite sure what to think; glancing at Soap. With a faintly amused grin twisting his lips, Soap picks up the bottle of honey Nikolai had brought them on his last fly over, handing it to Allen. "We wouldn't want that, now, would we?"

Confusion gives way to a look Soap would have called _wholly unconvinced_ ; Joseph Allen taking the sticky offering like it was a dirty rag. Allen didn't have the courage to refuse either of them just yet; a fact Soap felt torn about, but ultimately let lie - believing that Price, if not himself, knew best.

"... Thanks."

Neither of Price or Soap take offense to the lack of sincerity; both preferring this Allen to the one that'd woken up screaming. Kid couldn't help it, Soap knew - but unhappiness over a condiment was preferable to the cruel breakdown of a young man who'd experienced more horror in the past year than most did in a lifetime. That was for bloody sure.

What on earth they were going to do with Allen when Soap was fit for duty was an issue he didn't have an answer to; their hunt for Makarov no doubt a waking nightmare for the American. Before Kamarov had brought Allen in from the cold, Price had been chomping at the bit to leave; to chase Makarov down and slot the bastard in short order. Those aspirations had cooled off since; Soap now unsure of where they stood.

As Price turns back to making tea, Soap decides that he'll have to follow up on that; dark gaze falling on Allen with a certain sort of protectiveness; the lad idly stirring his oats. Soap would need to trust whoever they left him with.

Absolutely.

* * *

 **A/N:** Happy New Year, everyone! I wanted to write a little something before 2017 ended, and came up with a small H/C fic where Allen survives. This story was unplanned and born straight out of a drabble, so it's not quite as polished as the usual and it's not going to be, as I need to focus on other things, but hopefully someone can enjoy it :).

I hope you all have a happy, healthy 2018.

PS: To anyone who might be interested, there is a writing event with prizes being hosted for the Call of Duty fandom at [ www (dotty) fuckyeahcodocs (dotty) tumblr (dotty) com/tagged/codathon2k18 ]. Remove the (dotty) and replace with a fullstop. It runs until the 15th of February and anyone is welcome to join!


	2. Part Two

**Endure**  
Part [2/5]

* * *

 _Light cuts through drifting curtains of dust; the breaching charge having eviscerated an entire wall._

 _Men clad in black attire follow the clattering path of a flashbang seconds after it goes off, combat boots crunching across debris as they vault through the hole they've just made. Gun barrels sweep from left to right with each step, checking - their mounted tac-lights revealing the secrets of every nook and cranny._

 _The room is empty, save for one._

 _As if on display, a shirtless man sits strapped to a seat in the middle of the room. Ropes that pulled his wrists and ankles taut against the arms and legs of the chair leave them bloodied, his skin giving away beneath rough nylon. There's a Hessian bag over the prisoner's head, obscuring his identity as the four shadows circled back towards him – area cleared._

 _A circle illuminates the captive's bruised and battered torso as it travels upwards, slipping across meticulous cuts and five corkscrews that have been twisted into flesh. One of the men steps forward, rifle falling to the edge of its strap. The glinting blade he pulls from the leather sheath on his belt is barely visible in the dark._

' _Mmmf-'_

 _Three careful strokes, and three restraints drop to the floor._

 _On the final one, with the tip of the blade slipping delicately between rope and skin, the prisoner lurches – broken hand clawing the hood off his head, adrenaline sending that terribly mangled body all but canon balling into the space in front of him. Instinct drives gun barrels up – sends roughly snarled curses out of mouths._

 _But the prisoner is still hobbled, escape thwarted by that one last tether._

 _There's a meaty thud and a strangled cry – the man's shoulder bouncing painfully off the concrete. An audible crack echoes, the ring of footsteps not registering through white hot pain. The leader of the unit comes to a stop just before he trods on outstretched fingers, brows drawing together behind his ski mask._

'… _This is not our HVT,' Kamarov says, hazel eyes darkening as they recognize the prisoner at his feet. With his lips pressing into a tight line, the Loyalist leader swears under his breath, lowering his AK-47. '... It's Joseph Allen.'_

* * *

The Loyalists HQ in Afghanistan is tiny, cramped; industrial LEDs that line the ceiling barely able to infuse light into the dark space. Bare, concrete walls outline the confines of a three-by-three box; one door carved into a grey niche facing the twining corridors and spiral staircases within the sprawling underground superstructure.

Allen bulks at the sight of it, his feet stalling on the threshold. Stagnant air and windowless rooms bring back memories; the scars littering his body, scored into his skin against very similar backdrops. He's been getting better these past few weeks, able to think clearly and pull himself out of episodes without the scratch of a needle; without MacTavish, or Price, rumbling in his ear, anchoring him to reality. But that doesn't mean he's strong enough not to stop. Not to hesitate.

'Fuck me,' MacTavish had been in front of him, trailing behind Price – lack of pain relief and still-healing wound straining his abdomen with the prolonged movement, leaving the 141's former Captain a touch slower. With a grunt, MacTavish drags a chair across the floor, grimacing at the harsh scrape of wood, before settling into it. 'I thought you Russians were coldblooded. This place is like a bloody sauna.'

Having arrived earlier, the dark-haired pilot MacTavish is talking to glances up from whatever he's looking at in his lap – 6"3' frame lounging precariously on his own rickety chair. 'That is only on Tuesdays. Today is for sweating out chemicals, without our balls hanging loose.'

There's a clatter; MacTavish opening up an aged laptop, his sharp blue eyes flicking between the Russian and the power point he's about to ram a plug into. 'Yeah, mate? What's Wednesday for?'

'Fighting bears, isn't it?' Price is standing on the other side of the table, flicking through a document that'd been left lying around. Apparantly it holds little interest – the older man barely skimming the second page, before shifting his attention.

Allen can't quite meet his eyes, when Price's analytical gaze lands on him – having paused in its trek towards Nikolai. It burns – a flush crawling up Allen's neck.

' _Da_ ,' Nikolai is grinning. 'If you cannot bench press a bear before breakfast, you are not a Russian.'

MacTavish snorts, unaware of the silent conversation taking place in the room. 'So which day is vodka day, then, aye?'

'Every day is vodka day, my friend.'

Price is still watching him, fingers starting to drum the table-top. A sign that he's thinking. Allen knows that if he pisses off now, somebody will be quick to follow. They always do, even when he'd like nothing more than to be alone.

It's not their fault.

Five months ago, he'd been dropped on them; recent horrors leaving him in a state that'd left a lasting impression. People had hurt him for a long time. First for information, and then _just because_. In their eyes, Allen had orchestrated the worst terrorist attack against Russian civilians in recent history. Hadn't flinched as he'd cut down women, and children, again and again. Babies lying dead in overturned strollers; wheels spinning in the air.

They hadn't wanted to kill him – that particular brand of justice, far too kind. Instead, they'd wanted him to suffer – to scream and beg and plead for mercy, despite knowing he'd be given none. Nothing he said and nothing he did would stop them, so he'd stopped trying to reason. Stopped trying use bloody, garbled words and hoarse cries, to appeal to their humanity. Because there hadn't been any for him.

And in suffering, he'd lost a bit of humanity himself.

Allen knows that when they look at him, MacTavish and Price will always see echoes of the shattered man. Will always search for it first, instinctively, because pulling him back from that had taken its toll. Had solidified his place in their world.

Fidgeting under the scrutiny, Allen feels the first coils of frustration in his gut when MacTavish is drawn by the noise; half-smile shifting into a slight frown when he notices Allen still parked in the doorway. Unlike Price, the former 141's Captain is far less subtle with his concern, mouth opening as though he's about to ask what's wrong.

Footsteps reverberate through the narrow corridor leading into the room like they're in an auditorium; heavy and carrying the ring of combat boots. Allen's chin grazes his shoulder as his head snaps around to see who is coming up behind him, heart stutter-stopping; nose flaring. The brief flash of alarm settles when he recognizes the man – Kamarov's height and broad shoulders giving him away before his sharply angled features come into view.

Flecked hazel locks onto green; Kamarov's thin lips curving in greeting, despite a faintly harrowed expression. Allen feels his own lips tug upwards before the Russian gets close enough that he has to move, or risk blocking him out. Distracted, slipping into the room doesn't feel like he's stepping into a cage; his legs automatically moving towards MacTavish.

His former Captain kicks a chair out at his approach, silently demanding. Allen ducks into it without a word.

'Price, MacTavish, Allen,' the Loyalist closes the door behind him with a deft tug, focus flicking over to the last man in the room. Nikolai raises the magazine he's reading in response – the cover a vibrant mix of yellow and pink; the headline proclaiming to unlock secrets of the vagina. Kamarov rolls his eyes, side-stepping his way to an empty space at the table. ' _Nikolai_ …'

Nikolai doesn't answer, rather blatantly ignoring his superior – one black eyebrow climbing as he rediscovers the purpose of the clit.

The rhythmic staccato of Price's fingertips hitting a hard surface stops. 'Kamarov,' voice dry, Price straightens – arms crossing over his chest. 'Late as usual, I see.'

'I would not want to increase your expectations of me, Price,' there's a rumble of laughter in Kamarov's voice, despite the barb. 'It is already so difficult to meet them, no?'

'The bar's as low as it gets.'

'Oh?' Kamarov says. 'Harbouring two of the world's most wanted is the lowest bar, is it? You are a hard man to please.'

Price huffs what could have been a laugh of his own. 'Now you sound like my ex-wife…'

'I expect I share very few of her perks.' Kamarov could have said more, but even though Allen has seen him cop a lot of shit, he's never seen the Loyalist leader rise to the bait. There's a moment where Kamarov surveys the group, eventually coming to a stop next to Allen. 'MacTavish,' the Russian leans over, inadvertently pressing close enough to Allen that the hem of his olive windcheater ghosts against the American's bicep. 'Did you need a hand connecting to the network?'

'No,' having already logged onto the Wi-Fi, MacTavish was clicking through folders located on the building's secure servers – searching for the Intel they were here to discuss. Annoyance flickers in MacTavish's expression, even as he hit the jackpot; thumbnails appearing on screen. ' _Christ_ ,' grabbing a handful of his shirt, MacTavish tugs at it, as though trying to get some air flow between his sweat-slick skin and the sweat-slick fabric. 'You can get the bloody Bee Gees down here, but no air-con?'

Kamarov tears his gaze from where he'd been tracking the laptop screen, cutting MacTavish a side glance before slowly, and rather deliberately, turning the miniature desk fan sitting by Nikolai's elbow in MacTavish's direction. It's only Allen that catches the smirk, the fact that he's paying attention to the man hovering above, earning him a sly wink. He's biting down on a grin when MacTavish picks up on what's happened; slightly flushed face bleeding disdain - the breeze whispering out of the twirling blade, lost in the humidity.

'Thanks, _mate_.'

'You're welcome.'

MacTavish doesn't see the humour in it. 'Tight-arse…'

Grainy surveillance images suddenly begin to dance across the laptop's screen, interrupting the banter. MacTavish spends a few seconds navigating the track pad of the device, squinting to try and locate the mouse icon. One last click sends the photo he's just opened to full size.

'Here's the bugger,' rotating the Lenovo so everyone can see, MacTavish gestures at the blurred silhouette of a road train, driving along the outskirts of a shanty town. Big and shining in the sunlight, it looked completely out of place – kicking up clouds of dirt as it passed in front of the rundown huts and rubbish piles. 'Found this a couple of days ago in the Loyalist vault. Didn't think much of it, until I saw who owned the bastard,' MacTavish shifts, tapping at the keyboard. 'Could have sworn we put these muppets down back in August.'

The picture zooms in – the blur getting worse as MacTavish targets the logo on the side of the truck, but the large block letters are still legible. Allen utters the name under his breath, but it's Price that asks the question out loud.

'... Fregata Industries?'

'Used to be a front for the black market weapons trade, run by a man called Alejandro Rojas,' MacTavish says, resting his forearms on the table. 'He had a deal with the Mad Dog, once upon a time. Not sure what happened to him after we hung him out to dry in Rio.'

'I remember that. You nearly got shot in the arse.' Nikolai chimes in, tempting fate as he rocks back in his chair, lifting the front legs from the ground. 'You always have such an affinity with the locals, my friend.'

'Must be his natural charm,' Price shakes his head, sounding amused. 'What happened to Fregata after you slotted their CEO?'

'Don't know,' MacTavish shrugs, mouth pressing into a taut line. 'Shepherd was in charge of mop up. The rest of us were on the hunt for the bone Rojas threw us,' huffing a breath, the former 141 Captain glances briefly at Allen – checking in. The General isn't a topic they like to broach around him, and even now, hearing the man's name leaves an icy pit in Allen's stomach. Leaves his throat a little tight. But he doesn't dwell on it, disjointed fingers laced together and resting on his abdomen. Chin tucked against his chest as he peers under the table, drawing lines in the dust with the toe of his shoe. MacTavish continues wearily, looking to Price. 'Which was you, mate.'

' _Hm_ ,' Price has a hand wrapped around the lower half of his face, thumb wedged beneath his jaw and forefinger pressed over his lips. The look etched into his features is pensive, thoughtful. 'If we don't know, then I suppose we'd better find out. Kamarov, you wouldn't happen to have more for me than a handful of fancy pictures, eh?'

Kamarov hums quietly, reaching up to scratch at his stubble. The sound that resonates in the Russian's chest is soothing. Allen takes a deep breath, letting it anchor him to the present. '… We know that the company is linked to a militia group in Africa. I cannot tell you if they deal with Makarov directly, but they have done business with the Ultranationalists in the past. Women. Cocaine. If you are looking to flush him out... it could be a good place to start.'

'And where should we start, aye?' MacTavish says. 'That's a big bloody continent to be searching without so much as a bullseye on their bollocks…'

'Guinea, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Somalia. They call themselves the PRF. We have kept tabs on their activity, but unfortunately with the broader war effort…' Kamarov can't quite bring himself to finish, expression darkening with something a lot like guilt.

'White powder and a couple of lost girls aren't a priority with Makarov breathing down your neck,' Price is quick to cotton on, ever the cynic.

'To put it bluntly…'

MacTavish grunts. 'So we're hunting for a needle in a haystack.'

'Perhaps,' Kamarov murmurs, fidgeting ever so slightly – as though he's debating what to say next, his hazel eyes flicking down to Allen's mess of black hair. 'Or, perhaps… you could ask Joseph.'

It takes a moment to register that Kamarov is talking about him.

On his left, MacTavish tosses a look of tempered steel at the Russian – chair creaking as he shifts. Allen doesn't see it as he slow blinks his way out of cognitive dissonance, confusion reigning as his brain scrambles to catch up.

'… Sorry,' his voice is hoarse with disuse – almost waspish as it fights to be heard over the silence in the room. 'What were you asking?'

'When you were undercover, _l'venok_ ,' Kamarov smiles patiently. 'Did the Ultranationalists ever trade with the PRF?

The conversation comes back to him – a wave of memory that breaks as abruptly as water crashing against rock. Allen doesn't usually reach into the house of horrors that is his mind, instead repressing the bad shit so deeply that entire weeks have been blotted out with swathes of black. Like a redacted file, that he didn't have clearance to read.

But he's been asked to help – the fact that MacTavish hasn't growled at Kamarov to back off, speaking to its importance. Licking his lips – wet tongue doing little to sooth the cracks left by dehydration, Allen opens the door of the panic room his conscious self has been hiding in, quietly staring out into an eerie forest filled with monsters.

 _The PRF, and lost little girls…_

That's where the first connection is – clicking into place with the faint sound of crying, muffled by the corrugated iron of a shipping container.

Allen had tended to avoid the docks; never setting foot inside the marina where Makarov offloaded his cargo unless he absolutely needed to. The Ultranationalist commander had liked to watch the defenceless paraded before him, terrified, tear-streaked faces giving him a figurative hard-on. Power had been his game; the brutality of destroying so many young lives, like a hit of heroin in his veins.

'… They never lasted long,' Allen murmurs wistfully, smelling sea salt and boat fumes on the breeze, the strained expression he'd always worn, exactly the same in past and present.

Kamarov tilts his head to the side, not understanding. 'Hm?'

'The girls…'

One would always die, when they came in. Skull caved in with a bat. Occasionally an eye popping loose. Allen can taste the bile pooling behind clenched teeth, as the twitching body of a kid nearly eight years his younger finally haemorrhaged hard enough that her brain stopped firing. It was supposed to be a lesson to the rest, but Allen knew the truth.

Makarov found it amusing, how sadistic his men could be.

'Human trafficking, then.' MacTavish can't quite hide his disgust. 'I suppose that narrows this bastard down.'

'There can only be so many ports with ships big enough to manage an international haul,' Price agrees, gears and cogs already spinning. 'I doubt we'll find anything on missing persons. They'll be targeting regional areas – places where people fall off the map every day.'

'Aye, poor buggers…'

Kamarov is listening, but he's also watching Allen – studying him carefully, while the others grasp the tiniest thread they've been given like it's a lifeline. Running a large hand through his crop of short, slightly spiked, brown hair, the Russian tries not to derail the two men – asking his next question quietly. 'Do you know what Makarov was paying for them?'

A sharp shake of his head pre-empts the negative that response tumbles out of Allen's mouth, scraping his throat. '…He didn't pay for them.'

Confusion registers on Kamarov's face. 'No?'

'It… was a mutual thing.' Allen bites the inside of his cheek, hands rotating from where they're resting against his abdomen so that his left can gently massage the fingers on his right. The bumps and odd angles of badly healed bones make him grimace – or maybe that's the sudden silence. 'Makarov-'

Saying his name makes him flinch – a shudder tickling down his spine. MacTavish reaches over, clasping his shoulder in a comforting grip – the warmth anchoring Allen to reality, dragging him back out of thickening fog.

'Mate, you don't have to-'

Allen feels anger. Not at MacTavish, but himself. 'It's fine,' he rasps, letting the rhythmic movement of his thumb grazing over his knuckles, calm him down. He takes a breath, searching for the building – the warehouse, where Makarov would only ever exchange one military grade briefcase for twelve souls. 'He didn't need the women, he just moved them for the militia. Got the warlord better prices than he'd get local, you know?' Allen closes his eyes, trying to remember. 'He gave them something in return.'

'What was it?' Opposite him, Nikolai flicks a page in his magazine – the text going unread as he peers at Allen through hooded lids. 'Drugs? Guns?'

'I- I don't know,' this, Allen knows, is where he'd failed. The briefcase had been important. That much had been obvious, with how closely Makarov would keep it whenever it left the compound. Allen had thought that was fucking strange. There was the leader of the Ultranationalists, surrounded by soldiers that would kill each other if Makarov dared to demand it, and yet the man wouldn't let that dark green container out of his sight. He'd been protective, _secretive_. 'I never saw inside it, but he needed them – the militia, to take it. The last time, he said what was going to happen in Sochi would prove them right-'

' _Sochi_?' The razor sharpness in Kamarov's tone makes _everyone_ freeze – the Russian's features morphing with unbridled fury. Nearly matching Nikolai for height, he cut and intimidating figure as he all but loomed over Allen – the kindness that'd dictated his moves since he'd stepped inside the room, locked behind a cold canvas. ' _Yebat', trakhat' vse eto_. _Konechno, eto byla pizda_. What else did he say?'

' _Kamarov_ ,' Price is an icy warning from five feet away, reacting to the panic etched into the now-trembling lines of Allen's body.

' _Uspokoysya, kapitan. Vy pugayete shchenka kotorogo vy privezli domoy_ …'

It takes a second, maybe two, for both the voices of Price and Nikolai to drill through the storm of emotion that's making the Loyalist rigid with anger. Whether what they're saying has any causal effect on Kamarov pausing long enough to realise he's just bitten the one man he's been making every effort not to isn't a fact they can qualify, but nary a minute later, Kamarov steps back – cowed, rubbing the back of his neck while MacTavish glares daggers at him from behind Allen, silently promising to at least make his punches tickle if Kamarov kept up the bollocks.

'Sorry, _l'venok_ ,' Kamarov says, remorse making his words thick, heavy. 'I am sorry. But Sochi… that is. Well,' the Russian hasn't yet siphoned off the tension, his body language still full of rage – his hand opening and closing into a shaking fist. 'I ordered twelve of my men to take care of a hostage situation in the CBD, back when it was under Federal control. None of them came out.'

'You think it was related?' Price is the first to forgive Kamarov's misstep, neutrality redefining his posture now that the threat had passed.

Kamarov snorts disdainfully. 'Not just _related_ , Price. When we went looking for them days later, we found fifty-two bodies. Ultranationalists, Loyalists, and civilians. All swollen up like pufferfish. The medic said it could have been heat and gas, except it was winter. I said it could have been Makarov, except his own men were dead. We blamed Vorshevsky.'

'Allen did not see what was in the briefcase,' Nikolai says slowly. 'It could have been guns, it could have been bombs.'

'It could have been bloody cupcakes, for all we know,' MacTavish mutters.

'Makarov has guns,' Kamarov reminds them tightly. 'He has drugs, and women. These are things he has had for years, no? They are what got him noticed by Interpol. But what does he not have, hm?'

Allen manages to untwist is tongue – fear dissipating enough that his heart returns to an almost-normal beat. It's still fast – too fast, but the answer drives everything back. Drives him forward. '… Chemical weapons.'

It is so obvious, now that he thinks about it. So obvious, _and yet he hadn't seen it_.

' _Da_ , _l'venok_ ,' Kamarov offers him that same smile from before – the one he doesn't seem to offer to anyone else. Infused with apology, but patient and kind. Allen wonders what he'd done to deserve it, considering that the first thing he'd ever done to Kamarov, was blacken his left eye. 'You are right.'

The HQ lulls into quiet – so much so that they could have heard a pin drop.

'Right,' MacTavish is the first to speak, distinctly uncomfortable as his gaze tracks back to his laptop's screen, analysing the impossibly large road train. 'So now you're trying to tell me that this fucker,' his index finger stabs at the glass, creating a small, pulsing circle of colour beneath the place his skin was touching until he stopped touching it. 'Is packed to the rooftops with some kind of Sarin gas, are you?'

Kamarov shrugs, refusing to deny it. 'We will not know until we check inside.'

'It's world war three, but it looks like this bastard's about to send us straight back to world war one,' Price isn't anywhere near as daunted by the prospect as his younger counterpart. ' _Lovely_.'

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you to everyone who took the time to drop me a comment on this work! I am actually quite shocked by how many people stopped by. A super special thank you to UrgentOrange, Baffled Queen, Guest, hansolo18, Lisbet Adair and CATSINTHEWASTELAND. You are all true fandom treasures.

 **Translations**

L'venok = Little Lion

Da = Yes

'Yebat', trakhat' vse eto. Konechno, eto byla pizda,' = 'Fuck, fuck it all. Of course it was that bitch.'

'Uspokoysya, kapitan. Vy pugayete shchenka kotorogo vy privezli domoy', = 'Calm down, Captain. You will scare the puppy that you brought home.'


End file.
